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Five years later and I'm still yours
Ten years later and I'm still yours
Fifty years later and I'm still your beginning and middle and end
-beginning, middle, end by Leah Nobel/The Greeting Committee
Lucy blames it on her lack of better judgment.
She spouts every excuse in the book to a ghost-locked Norrie during the weekly audio tape updates she’s been documenting since arriving in London. She even stoops so low as to accuse Skull of messing with her Listening abilities (which results in him keeping his irritating opinions to himself for a whole week out of spite).
Yet, deep down, Lucy knows it’s because she’s begun to develop something real for the emotionally suppressed boy who’s been occupying the left side of her bed for months. She’s fallen prey to her own weaknesses. Letting others in has only left her with a gaping hole where she assumes her heart should be.
Perhaps that’s why she runs.
Leaves before they lose each other.
++
Months ago…
Lucy can’t sleep.
The trio has a case they’re supposed to execute the following day, and the only rest she’s gotten is the kind where she squeezes her eyes shut until bright spots dot her vision. She wills her brain to turn off until her body inevitably becomes restless again, which results in peering at the hands on the clock face next to her bed. It’s the fourth time she has done it in the last thirty minutes. Sighing at the realization, she detangles her legs from the cotton bed sheets and slips on a pair of slippers. Perhaps a trip down to the kitchen will ease her mind.
She’s careful to step around the inconsolable creaks on the wooden staircase in an attempt to avoid waking the boys, however, her tiptoeing feet come to a halt on the landing when she spies a soft glow spilling out from under the doorframe of the library.
The hinges on the door groan as she pushes it open, causing her to silently mouth ‘shit’ under her breath. George’s bed springs squeak as he shifts in his sleep from the disturbance. She wishes he wasn’t such a light sleeper. Unfortunately, it came with the territory of being an agent. You must always expect the unexpected.
“Luce,” comes a soft voice from a velvet armchair, the occupant not even bothered to turn around to sense her presence. Screw him and his aptitude for recognizing her footsteps.
Abandoning the attempt to latch the door again, she slowly turns to face the boy who’s become not only a menace to society, but also a menace to himself as of late.
“I thought you were going to try to get some sleep,” she berates at a whisper-pitch, crossing her arms over her chest.
Even from a distance, the bruised, half-moon circles under his dark eyes contrast starkly against his pale skin, shadows from the fire dancing cruelly within the hollows of his cheeks. He’s wearing his typical, white button down shirt with a black tie hanging loosely around his neck. Lucy’s heart clenches at the state he’s become, so contradictory from the confident, soft-faced boy who hired her in his living room without question what feels like a lifetime ago.
As if sensing her scrutinization, he sends her a half-hearted grin and lifts a shoulder sheepishly. “I did.”
“Seriously Lockwood. You can’t keep going on like this. It isn’t fair to George or I. We need you at your best tomorrow.”
Ever since the Bone Glass case, Lockwood had started on a downward spiral. Between going days without sleeping and skipping meals, his Talents as an agent were not as sharp as they should have been, resulting in more than a few close calls with Type 1s. Those cases were supposed to be a walk in the park for a group of agents at their skill level. Instead, he was fencing like a first year and had nearly blown George to bits with a poorly aimed bomb.
Witnessing the drained state of him tonight, Lucy knows they need to drop tomorrow’s case, fearing it could easily turn into a suicide mission. George already explained they would be up against a Type 2. She reckons he may not be that opposed to getting himself killed, but she refuses to be an accomplice in bolstering his appetite for self-destruction.
He turns his attention back to the magazine in his lap, his trembling hands gripping the pages tighter. “Don’t worry about me,” he mutters, his disinterest in elaborating already signaling the conversation is over.
A flush of anger at his attempted indifference drives her to close the gap between them, her hands balling into fists at her sides as she marches across the room. If he weren’t on the verge of collapsing, she undoubtedly would be using them to knock some sense into his thick skull.
“Don’t worry about you?” Lucy begins, grabbing the magazine. “You must be delusional if you think George and I have had time for anything else these days.” She fights to maintain a low tone when all she wants to do is yell . Maybe then, he would finally listen to their pleas to take care of himself.
His eyes remain fixed on the floor, hands wringing the threadbare arms of the chair. Lockwood’s expression is controlled, detached from the room where Lucy is sure she may burst into flames if he doesn’t give her something.
Stooping down in a last attempt, she covers one of his nervous hands with her own. His hand is far too cold for sitting so near a fire. “Please,” she practically breathes, begs .
Lockwood’s hand immediately stills from her touch, a shaky breath escaping his tightly pressed lips. She watches the effort it takes for him to return to the conversation, his throat bobbing up and down, eyes locking onto hers with words he doesn’t know how to say. Lucy grips his hand tighter, rubbing soothing motions into his skin with her thumb.
“I–I can’t–,” he relents, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles against forces she cannot see.
She’s afraid she’s going to lose him completely.
“I can’t sleep, Luce,” Lockwood gasps. “They’re always there. They never leave me alone.”
His parents.
Of course this had to do with his parents. Lockwood mentioned them briefly following the information the Golden Blade revealed during the Bone Glass case. She didn’t realize the effect it would have on him though. Neither did George. If only he had said something sooner. Leave it to the boy in front of her to wait until he was at his breaking point.
Silence rings loud. Lucy says nothing, knowing he doesn’t want her pity or sympathy. Instead, she continues her ministrations on his hand, contemplating the demons beyond her reach. She knows what it’s like to live with the dead. Lucy tries to convey it without words as she gazes into his fixed eyes. His shoulders relax a fraction of a breath and she wants to believe he understands her message.
Rising tentatively to her feet, hand still intertwined with his, her voice gently says, “Come to bed.”
There is no fight left in Lockwood. He stands without a single protest and lets Lucy lead him upstairs to the attic. If he were less weary and doleful, she imagines he would laugh good humoredly at her attempt then bid her goodnight with a cheeky comment. She wants him back. Needs him back.
He sits on the edge of her blanket knotted bed and removes his tie, dropping it to the ground in a way so unlike his typical, methodical self. She tries to fix the sheets as neatly as possible, then sits on the side opposite him.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she whispers a hint of nervousness rising in her chest. She’s never slept in the same bed as a boy before. Lucy doesn’t want him to feel pressured to stay.
“Yes,” is all he says before curling into himself, his body facing away from her toward the window. He pulls the blankets over his lanky form and remains utterly motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Lucy slides into bed next to him, opting to leave as much space as possible between their bodies. She turns toward him, staring at the wide expanse of his shoulders, and hesitates only a second before gradually reaching out her arm, the tips of her fingers barely brushing his back. She can’t see his reaction, but can feel his body relax ever so slightly.
Lucy does her best to will him asleep this time until she eventually succumbs to its grip.
He’s gone before she wakes.
++
The hours-long trip to Ireland feels more like days by the time the cargo ship she swindled her way aboard docks in Dublin. Lucy’s never had a reason to sail before and she decides she has no interest in ever setting foot on a boat again after spending nearly half of the voyage with her body hanging over the edge, stomach emptying its entire contents into the sea. Not that she intends to return to England anytime soon.
Work is easy to find in the crowded city, a local pub hiring her on the spot as a waitress. She takes the job after discovering the old building houses its employees in single-bedroom flats above the restaurant. The flat is furnished with the bare minimum–a bed, kitchenette, and a rickety table with one chair. It’s not her attic, but it will have to do for now. Her options are limited as it is and a roof with four walls is better than any shelter around the city.
Thus begins her new life. Normal life. Life she might have lived if her mother hadn’t dragged her to the agency three years ago. A life free of ghosts and weapons and heartache. Lucy shakes the sinking feeling of abandonment out of her head, drifting further beneath the scratchy quilt a coworker loaned her. Disappears from the memories of a pantless George, a know-it-all skull, and the boy whose arms held her close to him the morning she left.
Her only comfort is the warm tears that leave a damp spot on her pillow and the sobs she muffles with the corner of her sleeve, the walls thin enough for someone to hear. The first night, she dreams of milky white, ghost-locked eyes, his face forever frozen in terror.
Why did you leave? Look what you’ve done , his voice rasps in an awful, nail-biting tone.
But her body won’t move. They’re floating in pure darkness, his clothing the same as ever, but her arms remain glued to her sides, rendering her immobile. Helpless. Lucy cannot save him as she once tried.
I’m sorry . Her words carry through void like an echo in a deep cave despite the gentleness she tries to convey in them. If only she could reach out to hold him, to remind him that she left for the safety of everyone. To break him free of his trance.
Instead, his unnatural voice torments her the rest of the night.
And every night after.
Until Lucy has convinced herself that Lockwood must have ghost-locked himself after she fled.
The sobs persist.
++
Months Ago…
Lucy finds Lockwood in the kitchen talking to George, a slice of toast smeared with butter that’s been cut diagonally, waiting at her usual mealtime spot. She immediately peers at him out of the corner of eye, but he’s too engrossed in his conversation with their friend to affirm or deny the burning questions in the back of her mind.
“Well look who's alive,” George teases, tilting the cup of juice back for a sip. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep all day.”
She saunters across the kitchen to reach for a ceramic mug shaped like a cat. Lucy’s never been a morning person and black tea with at least one tablespoon of sugar is the only reprieve she’s found to convert back into an actual human being.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she grumbles, twirling her spoon in the steaming liquid, her back still toward them. Ignoring the rapid tempo of her heart, she stares at the tabletop as she casually takes a seat, bringing the mug to her lips. Don’t look at him, don’t look at him. Act natural.
George groans. “Ugh, don’t tell me you’re transforming into a monster, too.”
She looks toward her curly-haired friend with a grin. “I don’t think anyone can outmatch the one we already have.”
Suddenly, Lockwood gently knocks against her shoulder with a grunt of dissent, her cheeks instantly flushing red at the contact. George pays them no mind, but the outline of Lockwood’s silhouette next to her in bed comes to the forefront of her thoughts.
“I’m so relieved that I can maintain my position as monster of this house,” he drawls, holding his cereal spoon in midair.
“We only mean it in the most loving way possible,” George adds. “Although I have to admit, you seem a little less monster-ish this morning. Finally manage to get some sleep?”
Lucy glances at Lockwood in the most nonchalant manner she can muster. She knows there’s not a chance he would rat out their midnight rendezvous to George, yet her heart pounds against her ribs all the same.
He doesn’t spare her a look as he says, “Some.”
The bruises under his eyes are still prominent, however, his cheeks have a quality to them that she hasn’t seen in a while. Brightness. Warmth. It’s remarkable what a couple hours of sleep can do for a person.
This seems to satisfy George enough because he continues on with his breakfast and initiates a conversation about their case tonight. Lifting a piece of toast to her mouth, Lucy tunes out their voices, a hint of annoyance masking the respite she had been feeling. Of course Lockwood would continue with the case despite her appeal to drop it.
The toast remains the sole indication of his acknowledgement toward their ‘situation’ as the morning turns into afternoon and afternoon turns into night. Lockwood says the right things to bury his emotions from them and gives his all to the case. They make it out alive, her and George carrying a majority of the weight. His bomb actually lands on his intended target. But Lucy knows better. Lockwood may have the ability to fool George, and even himself; however, he’s walking a thin line and it's only a matter of time before he breaks again.
++
The days in Dublin pass by uneventfully. After the onslaught of nightmares, Lucy visits a local pawn shop to purchase an old rapier, the rest of her ghost-hunting equipment left behind in London. She has no intentions of using the weapon, but it makes her feel less susceptible at night. Sometimes, she catches herself going through forms on her days off, allowing herself to get swept away in the rhythm, the routine. The pub below her flat is loud enough not to notice the noise, yet occasionally a pounding on the door will force her to stop.
On a particularly gloomy afternoon, pouring rain forcing passerbys to take refuge in the tiny atmosphere of the pub, an older gentleman with a checkered newsboy cap, bushy mustache, and thick spectacles stops her on the way to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you that girl from the agency in London? The one who was all over the papers?”
Lucy swallows thickly, shifting her weight from side to side. “I–I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have the wrong person, sir,” she adds hastily, turning before the man can get another word in.
Safe in the refuge of the cooler, Lucy leans against boxes of vegetables, breathing deeply through her nose. Of course her disappearance would lead to her face being plastered over every newspaper in England.
The following evening, she buys boxes of hair-dye and changes her strands from their brownish color to a light blonde. It doesn’t suit her, she thinks, as she stares at her reflection in the dirty mirror, yet the possibility of being recognized by a near-blind old man suits her even less.
She wonders what he would think of her hair.
Wiping away the tears spilling down her cheeks, she climbs into bed and pulls the quilt over her head, waiting for his dead eyes to greet her subconscious.
Why did you leave, Lucy? Why did you leave? Why ?
++
Months ago…
Days pass. Lucy can tell he’s trying. He makes an appearance for almost every meal time now, the consistency allowing for the sharp edges of his body to soften. His hands no longer shake from malnourishment like the night she found him in the library. Unfortunately, his sleep schedule remains nearly as bad though. The blue and purple web of veins under his eyes are a grim reminder that his past won’t release its vice like grip over his conscience. She becomes accustomed to finding him napping on the tiny sofa in the sitting room at random hours in the afternoon, his long legs bent toward his chest, arm dangling off the edge as if his body literally turned off. He reminds her of a little boy in this form.
Lucy gingerly covers him with the old patchwork quilt that’s folded on the back of an armchair each time.
Then he spirals down into the dark recesses of his mind again after a case goes terrifyingly wrong. A group of older Fittes agents unexpectedly join them in the middle of a fight with a trio of Type 2s, the tip undoubtedly coming from Barnes, whose nose remained obnoxiously stuck in their business. The conflict takes a turn when another hoard of Type 1s appear, their own battalion grossly outnumbered and underprepared. They witness five agents from Fittes become ghost-touched, the remaining two barely escaping the same fate. Lucy, George, and Lockwood bail on finishing the case.
Lockwood sits in the middle of the cab on the ride home, his hands trembling in his lap, muttering to himself about what went wrong. What he should have done to save the agents. George shoots her a concerned look from behind their friend’s shoulders, mouthing ‘Oh no.’
When they step through the threshold of 35 Portland Row, Lockwood’s breathing is uneven, his demeanor withered and crushed.
“I’ll put on some tea,” George suggests, pushing past her with the same expression from the cab. They both are familiar with how this story ends.
Lucy stands alone with the tall boy in the foyer and does the first thing that comes to mind. She reaches out to hold his face with her hands, gently leading him toward her until his forehead is pressed against hers. It reminds her of their skirmish after the auction for the Bone Glass went awry. The result was enough to guide him back to her though. She prays for the same outcome.
Lockwood’s breath hitches momentarily, and suddenly, his own hands are clutching onto her like a drowning man reaching for a life float. She feels his icy fingers smoothing over the nape of her neck, thumbs rubbing the underside of her jaw.
He’s gasping for air, dark eyes wild, searching for a point of reference.
“It’s me, Lockwood. Shhh, you’re safe,” Lucy says softly, pulling him even closer. “It’s okay. You’re safe—I’ve got you.”
“Lu—Lucy,” he chokes, his fingers entangling with her short locks of hair. “I—I couldn’t—.”
“Breathe. Just breathe.” She is afraid he’s going to pass out from hyperventilating.
Suddenly, there’s a warm, watery substance dripping onto her cheeks. For a moment, she thinks it’s from her own eyes. Until she pulls back slightly to find Anthony Lockwood is crying. The Anthony Lockwood. The boy who deflects his real feelings at any given opportunity. Crying.
Lucy wraps her arms around his quivering shoulders, pulling him into her embrace. She feels his breathing in the crook of her neck as his head leans down to rest on her shoulder.
“‘Couldn’t save them, Luce. If I had only brought one more—.”
“Lockwood, no.”
She can’t bear to hear him blame himself for what transpired tonight. Knows the guilt of a case gone wrong well herself. If only she could convince him to share the burden with her. So he didn’t have to carry the weight of it alone.
George brings their cups of tea to the foyer, and they sit together in silence, the left half of Lockwood’s body pressed firmly against Lucy’s right half. A source of grounding. The tea floods her chest with a sense of calmness. Leave it to George to make them cups of chamomile.
After twenty minutes of staring blankly at each other, George bids them good-night and heads upstairs to his room.
Lucy doesn’t want to let him go.
“Come to bed,” she whispers, offering her hand.
He takes it without hesitation.
++
Six months have passed the day she receives the letter. There is no return address, and the fact she received a letter in the first place puts her on edge. No one should know she’s here. The handwriting on the front is not one she’s familiar with so she braces herself as she slides her thumb across the seal. What if he found her? Or George? Or DEPRAC? The thought of her mother finding her is enough to make her feel physically ill.
Two words are in the center of the blank page.
Her legs collapse beneath the weight of her body and she sinks to the floor of her flat, hand pressed tightly against the sob she involuntarily releases.
She’s awake.
Norrie.
Norrie is awake. Her best friend is alive and well. She’s not going to spend the rest of her existence in the prison of her mind. Suffering from despair and hopelessness.
Lucy soaks in the joy she’s feeling, the most she’s felt in ages. Then she gets to her feet and starts throwing the few belongings she has into her backpack, a newfound urgency prompting her to return. Norrie is waiting for her. Norrie needs her.
Sheathing the old rapier into the belt around her waist, Lucy takes one last look around the dusty space that was never really hers , and shuts the door with a note of finality.
Home.
She’s going home.
++
Months ago…
The second time they sleep together is much like the first. A healthy amount of distance in the center of the bed. Lockwood turned on his side away from her, his body stationary. She cannot get over the fact that he can sleep in his slacks and dress shirt. The thought of wearing her jumper and jeans to sleep makes her shiver in disgust. Scratchy clothing restricting her body is the exact opposite of her definition of quality sleep.
The left side of her bed is deserted before she wakes the following morning.
Then the unexpected happens.
Lockwood begins to invent reasons to linger in her room. Sometimes he’s there to ask questions, other times he wants to read an excerpt from his magazine to her. He even goes so far as to claim he’s checking the integrity of the lock on the window.
But Lucy knows the real reason he’s bullshitting her. And it floods her heart with wild anticipation. He wants her to invite him to stay.
So she does.
Every. Single. Night.
Only for the sake of the team, of course. They need him rested enough to interact like a human instead of a zombie. Or monster as George has affectionately nicknamed him. It definitely has nothing to do with their waning proximity, his frigid fingers finding hers under the sheets, and his soft eyes roaming over her features when he thinks she’s asleep.
Not at all.
To no surprise, he continues his act of pretending like nothing is evolving between them during the waking hours of the day. They go about business as usual, practicing their swordplay, solving cases, and pouring over texts in the library. The obvious dismissal gnaws ever so slightly in the back of her mind. She wants to question him about it, extract the truth and wave it like a flag for all of London to see. He’s mine . He sleeps in my bed, she thinks selfishly. But what ownership does she truly have regarding the gravity of their relationship?
He sleeps in her bed. Nothing more. Nothing less.
To the rest of the world, they are business partners. Agents. Friends. She’s an asset , Lucy recalls bitterly.
Lockwood begins to shed his armor, piece by piece, within the protection of the night. It’s never lengthy and rarely elaborated on despite her prodding, yet the true Anthony Lockwood bleeds through in his choppy statements.
“My parents were researchers.”
“My sister’s name was Jessica.”
“My mum used to read me Greek myths before bed.”
“I got a bloody bad haircut from my sister when I was seven and we had to shave it off.”
“I don’t mind the name Anthony. I just despise the nickname Tony.”
Each night when he bares another glimpse of the boy hiding beneath the persona he’s created, Lucy exchanges parts of herself too. It only seems fair.
“My mum never felt like much of a mum growing up. I suppose she did the best she could after my dad died.”
“Norrie and I used to smoke cigarettes behind her garage after work.”
“I never wanted to become an agent…always dreamt of becoming a writer.”
This newest revelation catches Lockwood off guard, the crease between his eyebrows barely visible from the moon’s glow outside her window.
“What? It’s true. Becoming an agent was my biggest fear. I didn’t want to go head to head with the dead. It scared me. Still does sometimes.” She’s barely breathing, the intensity from his stare holding her captive.
Hesitantly, his large hand reaches toward her, thumb brushing tenderly along her cheek until he tucks a loose strand behind her ear, fingers remaining fixed to the crook of her neck.
“It would have been a shame, Lucy Carlyle. Because you happen to be the best agent I know.” His voice is reverent and it sends a flutter of desire down her spine.
She senses her self-control waning even further in his presence. They have no label, but it doesn’t stop her from wanting to press her lips against his, feel the race of his heart, and the hands she finds herself daydreaming about, move along the edges of her body. She wonders if his heart would mirror her own at this moment. Pounding loud enough to ring faintly in her ears.
To make matters even worse, Lockwood shifts closer until she’s trapped beneath the arm still connected to her neck. Lucy is positive drowning in him would be the most pleasant way to die. She can’t contain the gasp that comes out of her mouth when his nose bumps the sensitive skin under her earlobe, his breath heavy on her skin as he finishes his thought. “But I think you would’ve been a brilliant writer.”
They fall asleep with Lockwood’s lean body wrapped around her from behind. She’s forgotten how much she’s missed being held by another person. Sometimes Norrie used to hold her when she would spend the night. Lucy nestles into him and he pulls her close.
She wakes to an empty bed per usual. But she can’t suppress the wide smile that grows across her face at the memory of how it felt to be held by Anthony Lockwood.
++
The journey back to London is reminiscent of her previous trek across the sea, stomach violently protesting the choppiness of the waters. However, the pain is worth the person she will hold before the day is over. She immediately boards a bus to her childhood village when the ship docks, letting the motion of the vehicle and the voices of the other travelers lull her to sleep.
He’s not there. In her dreams. Only darkness. Only the void of nothing.
The driver of the bus jostles her awake, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin and draw the rapier out of its sheath.
“Your stop, girl,” he informs, eying the weapon next to her legs uneasily.
She mumbles an apology and quickly darts for the exit, feet landing in the center of the village she once called home. Now the sight of the tired, washed-out buildings feels like a foreign country. She begins the familiar trot toward Norrie’s house, ignoring the bitter pain that burns through her chest at the fallen-agent statue still elevated in the middle of the square. The sun is starting to set and Lucy would rather not get preoccupied with lingering spirits.
Nothing has changed from the exterior of Norrie’s house besides maybe a few more vines of ivy and the violet petunias her mother planted in the window boxes. Lucy wastes no time at the door, knocking three times then waiting with nervous anticipation, bouncing on the balls of the feet.
Normally, she would rather be caught dead than be the girl who squeals from delight; however, when the door cracks open and Norrie, with the clearest and brightest eyes she’s ever seen, is standing opposite her, Lucy cannot restrict the noise that fills the space. Her best friend launches herself into her arms, and they stand there crying and hugging each other until Norrie’s mother checks to see if everything is okay. To no surprise, upon finding Lucy Carlyle on their doorstep, she too also bursts into tears and wraps both girls together in her arms, holding them close.
The girls waste no time with racing to Norrie’s room and shutting the door behind them. Just like old times. Neither seem to know what to say first because they open their mouths and start talking over each other hurriedly, then burst into fits of laughter. Lucy’s convinced nothing has sounded more beautiful to her than the pitch of the redhead’s laughter.
“Okay, okay, you first,” Norrie relents, pulling them onto her bed.
Where did she even begin? “How? I don’t understand how you’re—” she motions up and down at her friend.
“Honestly, Luce, I hardly even know how I got out of it myself. From what my parents have told me, DEPRAC showed up at the house one day, explaining the preliminary trials for getting people unghost-locked were proving a success in some of the bigger agencies, and I was recommended as another candidate by some anonymous individual,” she glances between their interlocked fingers. “At first I thought it was you, with your position in that agency and DEPRAC and all. What’s it called again? Lockwood & Co.?”
Lucy is left speechless, breath catching at the name the girl utters. Norrie shouldn’t know that name. Why does she know that name?
“Nor,” she starts slowly, squeezing her hand harder. “Nor, how do you know that name?”
Norrie’s eyebrows pinch in bewilderment, evidently not understanding why Lucy looks like she’s on the verge of a panic attack “What–what do you mean? I thought you were the one who sent the tapes,” she gestures to a cardboard box resting in the corner of the room.
Rising unsteadily to her feet, she moves to the box, quaking fingers reaching for one of the tapes. Holds it like it may disintegrate in her hand. He did this. Why did he do this?
Lockwood.
Norries continues from her spot on the bed, ignorant to the tremble of Lucy’s lips. “I listened to all of them, of course. You have to tell me everything . I was hanging onto every last word, especially the bits about Lockwood. I’m dying to hear what’s happened with him since your last one was from six months ago.”
“I–I left him.”
She drops the tape back into the box and turns to look at the frown plastered on the face that should only exhibit happiness for the rest of her life.
“Luce—”
“I think I’ve made a horrible mistake, Norrie.”
Then she’s crumbling, sobs wracking her shoulders, tears flooding her eyes until she can no longer make out the form of her friend. It has taken her so long to acknowledge the ache in her chest, but she knows the name she can finally give it.
“I love him. I love him and I ran away from him,” Lucy chokes, barely able to manage the words.
Norries is there, wrapping her arms around her shaking body. She’s grateful for the comfort. “You have to go back to him. You have to tell him, Lucy. Even I could assume as much from your tapes.”
He’s going to hate her. She would hate her if she was him. He could not possibly forgive her for abandoning them the way she did.
They stay on the floor together for a long time until Lucy is brave enough to look her in the eye and start from the beginning. Telling the whole story is almost therapeutic. She does her best to add little details that she might have missed in the tapes. It’s the most natural thing in the world to talk with Norrie about this. Like they just caught up yesterday. No matter her relationship with George or Lockwood, nothing could replace the presence of the friend listening with eager ears. They laugh. Cry. Norrie insists she repeat certain events so that they can over analyze them together. They share in the stupidity of boys.
They’re her stupid boys, though.
And she needs to go home to them.
Norrie may be home, but this village is not.
Neither is Ireland.
35 Portland Row is home . George Karim is home . Skull, Flo, Barnes, Kipps are home .
Anthony Lockwood is home.
Norrie makes her promise to leave for London at the break of dawn and not to return until Lockwood is at her side. Lucy wants to protest, but her fiery friend is stubborn, and sends her away with a kiss on the cheek and the reassurance that everything will work out in the end.
++
Months ago…
It baffles her at how quickly he catches on. Truthfully, it shouldn’t. George is the brains of the operation, their leading researcher. But when he blocks her path on the landing from her attic one morning, eyebrow raised in accusation, Lucy’s gut is struck with guilt.
“Care to explain why I’ve heard Lockwood coming down from the attic every morning this week?”
Did they all know each other’s footsteps that well?
Lucy sighs, a million excuses running through her head, but she opts for the truth. This is George. Her teammate and closest friend. “I swear it’s nothing, George. He just sleeps better when he’s not alone.”
His suspicious expression tells her he’s not convinced.
“Tell me you haven’t noticed that he’s been more of himself lately.”
“I’ve noticed,” he admits. “But it didn’t make sense until now.”
Lucy doesn’t like where he’s going with this. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t be serious,” George says with a roll of his eyes. “Anthony Lockwood is in love with you, Lucy.”
For a moment, she forgets how to speak, the blood in her body rushing to color her cheeks a dark crimson shade. Lockwood is not in love with her. Where was George gathering this evidence? If he’s basing his assumption on their daily interactions, that’s hardly enough to claim Lockwood is in love with her. Compared to their nightly exchanges, Lucy might as well be a fly on the wall.
“He’s—that’s—George, he’s not in love with me,” she sputters defensively.
“Really ? Then why does he stare at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters?”
Lucy opens her mouth to challenge his statement, but he holds up a hand and continues.
“Why does he check to make sure you’re okay at the beginning, middle, and end of every case? Tell me Lucy, why does he have a stupid grin on his face every morning when he’s cutting a piece of toast diagonally for you? And now I’m finding out that he’s actually sleeping in your bed? The man is out of his mind for you.”
He finishes like he just gave the speech of the century, his chest heaving from exertion. The color on her face deepens. Lockwood loves her? No. Anthony Lockwood loves his agency. He loves his friends. But he doesn’t love her like that. He couldn’t possibly. Because if he did love her, then he will inevitably end up hurt again. He wouldn’t allow her to turn into something he runs the risk of losing. Losing like he lost his parents. His sister.
Another realization washes over her, making her stomach churn. What if she loses him like she lost Norrie? What kind of person would she become if he decided to stop sleeping on the left side of her bed? The possibility of losing Lockwood makes her grip onto the banister until her knuckles turn white. Her lungs seem to have no oxygen left. Lucy can’t breathe. She needs to get out of the house. Now.
Pushing past George without another word, Lucy stumbles down the stairs.
“Lucy? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a—,” George calls in confusion, arm reaching out to steady her.
She can’t accept it. She has to leave. Falling knees first in the small patch of grass outside of the house, she gasps for air until her lungs burn. Prays that he won’t find her like this on his return from the market.
Lockwood cannot love her. Otherwise he may never recover from his past. And neither will she.
She begins to form a plan.
Lockwood cannot love her.
++
London is its typical gray and dreary self when she arrives at the bus stop. The rapier at her side clangs back and forth against her pleated skirt and black tights as she walks along the sidewalk, heading for the first conversation she needs to have before confronting Lockwood.
Her feet clack on the tiled steps that she climbs in the large building. Dread eats at her mind, but she swallows it, and grins at the woman sitting at the wide desk in front of her. “One day pass, please.”
The pinched-faced woman hands her a ticket without a word. Lucy turns to the rows of heavy tables and aisles of bookshelves. She discovers him quickly. His schedule remains too predictable. The curly-haired boy with black-framed glasses is intently jotting notes from one of the dozens of books spread across the table. It’s not too late to turn around, she thinks. But no. That’s not why she’s here.
Approaching the table cautiously, she stops beside him, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Excuse me. I was wondering if you knew of any good Italian places around here?”
His entire body freezes at the sound of her voice. Then, seemingly not trusting his auditory olfactory, he turns ever so slowly. Lucy can’t hold back the glisten of tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Initially, his expression tells her that’s the last thing he wants to answer for her. It's closed. Guarded. She can’t blame him.
A minute ticks by on the oversized clock hanging on a white wall.
Finally– “If you’re talking about pizza. Yeah, I know a place.”
Lucy could kiss him from the relief flooding through her. George packs his bag and they walk in silence to the pizza place near the archives. After they both have their slices, they sit next to each other on the bench outside the shop, the whole situation similar to their first real conversation where she spilled her guts to him.
About to do it again if he lets her.
George sighs and says, “You really hurt us, Luce. Hurt him.”
“I know–I can—”
He cuts her off before she can finish. “But it was the smartest thing you’ve ever done. And the kindest thing you could have done for him.”
Lucy’s left gaping like a fish out of water, unsure what he could possibly mean. The boy chuckles at her speechless.
“He’s not dead if that’s what you think. Although we did have a couple close calls as I’m sure you can imagine. This is still Anthony Lockwood we’re talking about. But he finally got his shit together, Luce. I’ll let you tell him more about that though.”
Sniffling, she looks down as George takes her hand in his, the most shocking development of this entire conversation. He laughs again and she glances up to see tears swelling behind his glasses.
“George, I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I’m sorry I left you and Lockwood and the company. I felt like I was sinking. Like I was the sole reason Lockwood was getting better. Then you told me he loved me and I–I couldn’t do it.”
He nods understandingly, his tender eyes agreeing with her admission.
“You’re probably right. But we missed you so much. I missed you so much. And if you ever leave me alone with Lockwood like that again, I swear I will run you through with my rapier.”
A swell of laughter bubbles out of her chest and he smiles widely at her. They talk on the bench outside the pizza shop for a while, George catching her up on everything she’s missed, the drizzle of London raining down on them until they’re soaked and shivering. They catch a cab to 35 Portland Row to avoid coming down with a cold and George unlocks the door, gesturing for her to enter first.
The row house is exactly the same as the morning she left, and her eyes scan the foyer for signs of him, the anxious churn of her stomach returning.
Pulling out their rapiers, they replace them in the canister next to the coat hooks. George must notice her tentative searching because he whispers, “He’s likely in the library. Don’t tell me you forgot it’s his favorite hiding place.”
“Of course not,” she retorts, standing on the base of the staircase, looking up toward the landing.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
He’s right. What is she waiting for? Perhaps to arrange the words in her mind that she’s been wanting to pour out since Dublin. Forgive me. I love you. Sleep on the left side of my bed tonight, and every night, for the rest of our lives.
Taking a deep breath, she ascends the short flight of stairs, and comes to a halt before the library door. I love you, I love you, I love you . Lucy doesn’t know why she does it, but her knuckles rap the door lightly.
“Come in, Luce .”
++
He’s sitting in that old velvet armchair again with a magazine in his lap. She wills her feet forward until they’re meters apart, her eyes locked onto the features she’s dreamt about for months. However, instead of dead, milky-white eyes, his dark hues shimmer with mischief and tenderness. His cheeks are full and healthy. Glowing. The sight of a man well-rested and nourished.
Lucy is compelled to burst into tears from simply looking at him.
“You came home,” he says softly, tenderly. Rising to his feet, the magazine slides to the ground, neither keen to do anything about it.
Lockwood stands in front of the chair drinking in her appearance. His gaze falls on her blonde hair and she notices the twitch in his hand. The urge to reach out and feel it. Lucy’s certain any courage left in her will dissolve from his touch.
“Lockwood I—” she starts before the words escape her.
“Anthony,” he corrects gently, a fondness in the timber of his smooth voice. “I’m trying something new.”
Unable to help herself, Lucy laughs weepily at his interjection and nods in acceptance.
“Anthony,” she says, his name rolling over her tongue like it’s the most precious gift he could have bestowed. The corners of his lips tick upward at hearing it from her mouth. The sight one she wants to fill her mornings, evenings, and afternoons with until the end of time.
“I don’t know where to begin, honestly.” His expression is patient and far different than the one she fully expected to be on the receiving end of.
“Then let me start, Luce,” Anthony offers, extending a hand. She stares at it for half a second before letting him pull her into his arms. Sighing in relief, Lucy buries her face in his blue knitted jumper, hiding the tears of elation. He’s pressing soft kisses to her head and rocking her back and forth.
They bask in the proximity for several minutes, holding onto each other. Anthony pulls back to look down at her face and she notices his cheeks are also wet with tears. Yet, it’s remarkably open and decipherable.
She knows that look.
“I forgive you,” he assures, pressing his forehead to hers. “But Luce, I need you to know that I did that long ago. It’s me who should be asking you forgiveness. I thought by keeping you at arms length, I could escape what was happening to me. To us. I was broken from the reality of my past but the thought of losing you, too, became unbearable.”
His dark eyes search hers, the first sign of trepidation in his tone. “I shut you out. I made you into something that could drag me out of the darkness. And I was wrong. Because you’re Lucy Carlyle. Beautiful, caring, too good for this world. For me.”
“Anthony,” Lucy begs, reaching up to hold his cheeks. “I forgive you. And–And I love you. I love you, Anthony Lockwood.”
He stares, perplexed momentarily, registering what she’s just told him, then his sweet mouth, the one she’s wanted to taste for months, is pressing hungrily against hers. Lucy eagerly returns his affections, holding onto him like her life depends on it.
Pulling back a fraction of a breath, Anthony whispers close enough to her lips that the words burn into her skin like a promise, an oath. “I love you, Luce. Loved you since the moment you walked through the door of Portland Row. So break me. Shatter me into thousands of pieces. But only for you. Only for you.”
Nothing has ever felt more right. Being held by Anthony Lockwood. Being kissed by Anthony Lockwood. Being loved by Anthony Lockwood.
++
The night turns into morning by the time they’re finished talking. Lucy learns that Anthony begrudgingly agreed to see a therapist at a small, private practice, and he’s been attending sessions twice a week since she left. She tells him all about her visit to see Norrie and he sheepishly admits to pulling a few strings with DEPRAC. They make a plan to shut down the company for several weeks so that Anthony can get to know the friend he brought back to her.
She lets out a long yawn from where her head rests in his lap, his hands moving lazily through her blonde hair. “I like it,” he says. “I don’t think you could go wrong with any hair color, personally.” She rolls her eyes, but inwardly melts at the compliment.
Her eyelids grow heavy, the events from the past 48 hours catching up with her. Anthony’s slow, languid movement on her scalp is not helping the matter either. He looks down, lips curving at the sight of her sleepiness. It’s hard to believe she can love another person so much, she thinks.
“‘C’mon Luce,” he whispers, lifting her tired body in his arms, her head rolling onto the shoulder once pierced by a bullet. “Let’s go to bed.”